Never Enough Room in the Nest
by alikat522
Summary: A set of drabbles concerning one of my favorite characters, Percy Weasley, and why he can be more than a pompous student or a treacherous son. No set theme or time line, a variety of ships, spoilers up through Book 7.
1. Organizing the World

People look down on bureaucrats. I know my siblings certainly do. We are seen as tedious busy bodies, taking far too much time on inconsequential things and doing work that has no real benefit, while the heroes and warriors are out fighting dragons. But when I was ten, my father took me to work, and I looked into the eyes of a tired, worn-out scroll-pusher who had helped to save lives in the war every day, and would probably never be thanked for it.

As a child, evacuations had always unsettled me. The warnings would come through the Floo system at any hour of the day or night, and we all had to be ready to pick up and move. Mum would pick up the babies, while I helped Dad corral the twins, and make sure to leave a window open so that the pets could get out if the house caught on fire. We Floo-ed to a government facility, a protected place where scared people gathered together and tried to track down their friends and loved ones to make sure they were still alive. Mum and Dad had all of their Order connections, so this was not their only source of information, but for so many families, this was all they had as their line of defense against Death Eaters. We would wait while officials went down great lists and checked that people had made it in safely, taking note of all those who had yet to come. And those who never did come. Plenty would go back to their homes later and find rubble and ashes. And maybe they would take a moment to think about what would have happened if the warning had been five minutes too late.

The war passed, and life went back to its normal routine. I grew older, and the sting of fear from the war faded a bit, although I can never completely say it has gone away. The year before I left for school, my father took me to work to show me what he did all day. He walked me through department after department, introducing me to people, telling me what they did. At one point, we stopped in front of a small desk in the Department of Magical Transportation, Floo Regulation Panel. A man named Barnes sat there, a small, slight, tired-looking man. He shook my hand and gave me a smile while my father explained what Mr. Barnes did. He was in charge of coordinating evacuation messages: receiving notice of the incoming threat to an area, connecting to all fire places in the danger zone, and sending out the messages, all within as small a span of time as possible. He had been at his job for twelve years.

This man was a hero! A real life hero, who might have even saved my life, completely unbeknownst to me. As a child, it had not occurred to me that someone needed to do this, that the warnings did not come out of thin air. But people were passing by his desk without giving him a second glance! The pile of scrolls on his desk was huge, and empty cups of tea across the shelves showed signs of long nights. I scanned the walls and didn't see any sort of commendations. It didn't look like anyone really noticed him, despite what important work he did every day, both in times of war and times of peace.

I left for school with my head full of images of Mr. Barnes, the hero that people did not notice. I knew from a young age that I was not cut out to be a fighter; I was the most intellectual of the brothers, something that has earned me my share of bruises over the years. Maybe, if I studied and worked hard enough, I could be one of the people who saved lives on the other side. But I would not be content to be unnoticed. I wanted to be the best, to have people acknowledge my accomplishments. I wanted to be a scroll-pusher, but the best bloody scroll-pusher there was. My siblings could have the duels and races; I was going to be a hero anyway.


	2. Dive

Should I go over and say something? Would my presence be appreciated? I certainly did not wish to intrude on anything. And it is not as if we had been terribly close while at Hogwarts. Dorm mates, of course, and from time to time, we had something which could be called a friendship. Of course, if I had had my way, it would have turned into a bit more…

He does certainly look wonderful tonight. From the way he and his teammates are talking, I would say they just came from Quidditch practice. Windblown hair, ruddy cheeks. Certainly very becoming on him. I do not mean to stare. I just came here for a drink, something to calm down after work. Not that I ever really left work; the scrolls out in front of me on the table can attest to that. They obviously came here to spend time as a team, my presence would be an intrusion at best, I should finish my drink, pack up my work and leave.

And do what? Go back to my flat? Feed the owl, read for a few hours, and go to bed, still thinking about this moment? Is this really what I want my life to be? They say the war is building, and no matter how much the officials try to deny it, something is going to happen soon. The tension is building, it is going to reach a breaking point.

What is that Muggle phrase? _Carpe diem_? It becomes all the more important when there are not that many _diems_ left. I put it off when I was at school, too afraid to ever try anything. I have enough in my life to regret. I do not want this to be one more thing.

I shove all of my scrolls into my bag, down the last of my drink, and walk over to him. One of his teammates notices me first, and taps him on the shoulder to turn him around. I finally manage to stammer out my greeting.

"Hello, Oliver. How are you doing?"

He smiles at me, one of those big smiles that I remember so well from school, the kind that always made my heart jump a little.

"Hey, Percy. Fancy meeting you here."


	3. Only Small Actors

They were the underestimated ones. The ones thought to be small players at best, villains or traitors at worst. They were looked down on by their families, their friends, their superiors, even their inferiors. No one thought that people like them could change the tides. No one thought they could be heroes.

And not just heroes at the big moments, the shining confrontations where poses were taken and battle cries were flung back and forth like spells. They were the people who stayed behind afterwards, cleaned up the mess while the main heroes went on. It says a lot that neither of them became Aurors, like so many young men and women, looking to get some last bit of the glory. A teacher and a bureaucrat. Not the flashiest jobs, not the boldest statements, but the jobs that are needed to rebuild a society after a catastrophe. They are both done with flashiness. They are sick and tired of it.

The times that feel the most like peace are the quiet times. They both come home from work to their little house in Hogsmead. Neville works in the garden, the small, cozy grouping of plants separate from the hustle and bustle of the Hogwarts greenhouses. Percy sets down his paperwork when he gets in, knowing he'll return to it later, but first taking a moment to say hello. He stretches out with a book in a chair by the garden, listening to his lover hum with his hands up to the elbows in soil. He has no interest in dirt and mess, but he has an interest in Neville, so he stays outside.

They have talked about children; in this new world, there are still far too many orphans, and Neville knows what it's like to not have parents around. Percy likes the idea, but insists on one, two, or four children; he knows how alliances form between siblings, and knows what it means to be the one the others unite against. Large numbers create chaos, and odd numbers mean odd ones out. But they both want a family, a home to return to in the evening, a bit of comfort and safety as they help rebuild the world. They know there is still work, that there will always be work, but after all they have already accomplished, they figure they deserve this much.


	4. Snog

Percy Weasley has always put a high value on preciseness of language. Specificity is vastly important when it comes to contracts and agreements, whether it be in one's business or personal life. From a young age he had learned that the twins would twist any command to their own needs, so he made sure to cover all of the bases when talking to them. No "you should do this", rather, "do this". This skill served him well in his professional life. Obviously a great deal of politics involves using less than precise language to convince or sway people on certain issues, but when it came down to contracts, exact phrasing bordered on an art.

One place where this skill was not prized was in the dating world. There, half-truths and spins and slang were the verbal currency, something he had never been exactly trained in. And when he finally did settle in with someone, the person in question took a fair amount of sadistic joy in exploiting Percy's lack of comfort with slang.

"Come on, tell me what you want?"

"Oliver, this is childish."

"Yeah, but I wanna hear you say it."

"Why? I have made my intentions and desires perfectly clear. Why should I compromise my vocabulary for no good reason?"

"Because otherwise I won't let you."

"…Oliver… I would like to…"

"Come on, say it."

"…snog you."

"Was that so hard?"

"Well, it was not pleasant. And I still do not see the point."

"Because I think it's cute to watch you squirm. Now get over here."


	5. Breakfast Out of Bed

"Look, it is _Sunday_. We're _supposed_ to stay in bed and contribute nothing of any real value to society."

"Yes, but I thought I heard an owl in the kitchen. It's probably just the edited draft of the Lycanthropic Rights report, and it won't take me but a few hours to have it turned around and sent back."

"Percy, you don't know if it's the report. It might not be. It might not even be an owl, it could be the girls in the kitchen."

"Well, then I should get up and make sure they are having a good breakfast; I don't think Lucy drank enough milk last night."

"She can have milk with lunch, and they're old enough to make breakfast. You're staying right here."

"Audrey, I'll just be a moment, and I can put the kettle on while I'm up. I'll bring in the paper, make some toast, perhaps some eggs. We can have a nice breakfast in bed."

"Nope. You go out there, and I'll never get you back into bed. So stay put. Breakfast can wait, the girls can wait, the report can wait. It's Sunday. And you need a break."

"…I suppose I have been working a bit hard lately. The new legislation is progressing nicely, but it's certainly been an uphill slog. Why, just the other day, I had Shacklebolt in my office telling me that-"

"Percy?"

"Yes, dear?"

"No business. Just get back into bed."

Percy Wesley smiled down at his wife and crawled back under the covers with her, relaxing for a moment in his peaceful Sunday morning.

That is, until the owl started tapping on the bedroom window instead. And Lucy started crying that Molly had borrowed and lost her new notebook. And three interns Flooed into the living room with forms to be signed.

Some days he envied the peace of the Burrow.


	6. Dark Voices

They talk about me like I'm not there, sitting by my bedside. Or later, when I'm able to move around the house, they don't bother to leave the room.

"I just don't understand, Alastor. What's wrong with him?"

"Poppy explained it best she could, don't know why you think I'll have any better way of puttin' it."

"Yes, but she said his throat is fine. His lungs, his mouth, everything, she was able to heal it. There's nothing wrong with him. Why won't he talk to us?"

"It's not anything that happened to his neck, Molly. It's something inside."

Not as bad as Frank and Alice. That's what they keep saying to her. Don't worry, he's not as bad as Frank and Alice. His eyes track, he nods and shakes his head, he seems to know where he is. He'll come around soon enough. He's not as bad as Frank and Alice.

But it won't be good enough for her until I say something. Something to prove that I'm back, that not everything was left on the floor of a cell, that I'm still her little boy. She speaks to me, asks me questions that can't be answered with a nod or shake, tries to trick a word out of me. They heard me screaming when they found me; they know my voice is still in here.

But I can't let it out. I want to. I just can't. The Death Eaters spent so long looking for it, and I had to keep it hidden away.

"Do you want more of this? Do you? Just tell us where your brother is, and we'll stop. One word, and it will stop. It's so easy to make it end; anything else that happens to you is your fault. Do you have anything to say?"

I didn't. Not once. The hat didn't just say Gryffindor because the tie would look good with red hair. I got rid of my voice, buried it deep, put it in a box that no spells or potions could get through, slammed it shut and locked it up, and of course I put the key somewhere I couldn't find it. If anything, all of this is showing how good a job I did at hiding it.

But she still cries. She doesn't understand. None of them do. And I can't explain it, so I might as well be like Frank and Alice for all the good my mind is doing me. So many thoughts and no way to get them out.

They take the bandages off my hands and leave. I try to grab their attention, but I flailed and twitched so much the first week that everyone learned to ignore it. So I go and find it myself, digging through desk drawers that I haven't been around to open in years, looking for some scrap that I must have left behind. I finally find something in the back, a stray piece that had fallen in my rush to leave.

I never do manage to find a quill, so when I set the piece of parchment on the kitchen counter next to her, the words are written in soot from the fireplace, traced out by my shaky hands. She looks up from her baking to read them.

**hello mum**

She stares for a second, disbelieving. Tears roll down her face and land in little spots on the bread dough. Her hands are already covered in flour, so she has something to respond with, white letters below the black.

**Hello, Percy. Welcome back.**


	7. Literary

Their's was a literary romance. Not a storybook romance, mind you, but a very literary one. Looking back, it appeared that every moment of note between them had taken place in the presence of books.

"Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5" was always an expensive book for families to purchase, but its contents were absolutely vital. Percy's copy was generously called second-hand, but really fifth was a more accurate description. The binding went out about half-way through the year, in the middle of a hallway, so by the time he managed to arrive in class, he happened to be missing several pages. Luckily, the classmate in the desk next to him was incredibly sweet and generous, so she allowed him to share her copy for the lesson, the two of them pressed together on a bench in order to both read.

He managed to get his own copy a month later. The delay was completely unintentional, of course. The smell of Penelope's hair had absolutely nothing to do with it.

"The Prefect's Handbook" was very nicely bound, with a glossy sheen and attractive cover that tried its hardest to obscure how boring the book's contents were. The Head Boy passed a pile of them around the prefect's compartment while he talked, giving out instructions for the year. Little did he know that at least one of his charges was not paying attention. Despite Percy Weasley's best powers of concentration, the feeling in his hand from where Penny had brushed it was far too distracting. The sweat from his palms left a light handprint on the shiny cover.

"New Theory of Numerology" was a bit too light for a couple of sixth years to be reading, but a study break that still provided some intellectual stimulation was always useful. Less useful, however, was distraction provided by sharing a library table, bench, and book with a member of the opposite sex. And to the frustration of many Hogwarts students, kissing over text books was not an actual academic pursuit. Even if it was a first kiss, and therefore very educational.

"The Healer's Helpmate" was a very useful book, from its collection of both practical aids for day to day accidents, to instructions for more complicated magical medical procedures. And in the third to last chapter, tucked away between instructions for treating Jarvey bites and the known cures for dragon pox, was a small section that many teenagers found quite helpful. All one needed was a spare cauldron and a discreet way to procure ingredients, and trip to Madam Pomfrey (or, Merlin forbid, Professor Snape) to ask for contraceptive potions could be avoided.

Years later, each of them would occasionally run their hands over the leather bound covers of the fancy journals; graduation presents to each other. They had known that their relationship would not last beyond the school year. A Healer's training and an entry position in the Ministry were not positions that left much spare time for romance. They had handed each other the journals, shared a final kiss, and gone their own ways, letting the unspoken meaning hang in the air.

"Our chapter is done. Go on and write your own story."

They were a very literary pair.


	8. Ginger

He stood in the cold bathroom, wand clutched in his left hand as he ran his right through his hair. It would just take one spell. An easy spell, one of the first they had learned in sixth year, and one he had looked up long before that. He would not readily admit just how long he had been thinking about this.

The clean, sterile lights above the mirror washed out his complexion, making his hair gleam even brighter in contrast. His own personal decorating sensibilities meant that his hair was the brightest thing in the flat, completely out of place among the white and silver in the kitchen, the muted earth tones in the sitting room, and the tans and beiges that dominated the bedroom. (There was one bright blue sweater tucked away in the back of his closet that matched it quite nicely. And that was the root of the problem.)

He was too pale to pull off a proper blonde. With his white skin, blonde hair would cause him to disappear completely, and he had had enough of that in his life. And there was a deep-set bit of leftover family grudge that kept him from wanting to resemble a Malfoy.

A sandy shade would make him look too juvenile. If he went with auburn, what would be the point of changing in the first place? And given the instigating factor in his row with his father, black seemed…wrong.

The answer was clear: a dark and dignified shade of brown. A handsome and strong color, but still completely ordinary. The perfect color for blending into a group. No more being the only ginger in a room. Or at least any good room. No more jokes about hoards of red-topped children. No more meeting people and having them know his last name before he gave it. He would get to meet people on his own terms, free from the history that his hair told. It made perfect sense from every perspective.

So why was it taking him so long?

He rubbed his hand once more over the top of his head and ran his thumb across his eyebrow. His was the darkest red out of the family by now; long hours in the library do not lend themselves to a great deal of sun-bleaching. Charlie had the brightest hair these days, practically neon in some lights. Bill's had the most variety, the greatest number of high- and low-lights, or at least it appeared that way in the long expanse of it. Truthfully, his own hair was probably closest in shade to Ron's, with a bit of the twins' curl and a touch of Ginny's shine. On days when it rained, the frizz came directly from his mother. When he was younger, he had wondered if he would begin losing his hair as early as his father had; after all, they did share the weak eyes of the family.

Perhaps, he thought, he should look into Muggle contacts.

He really should be getting to bed. The Minister was running him ragged these days, but he still liked to come in with the energy and drive that his co-workers and superiors had come to expect. If there was anything more to do tonight, it should be done quickly.

It was just one spell.

…But really, what would it accomplish? All of his superiors, the people who mattered, already knew him as a red-head. His name would always be on his badge anyways, so there was not much gained there, and the new color might lead to an unwanted altercation with his father in the halls, and he did not even know if brown would look good on him, and was it not a bit overly dramatic to think that hair color had such an impact on his standing and personality? He was not a sixteen-year-old, trying to rebel with a box of Muggle hair dye. He had already made his name for himself. His hair could not hold him back or move him forward any more than it already had.

That was that, then. He brushed his teeth and prepared for bed without another glance at his reflection. He was half-way under the covers when the whispery voice echoed out of the bathroom: the mirror, giving its verdict on his decision.

"Good choice. Red suits you."

He really should get rid of that mirror. He had brought it from his bedroom in the Burrow, and it had far too much of a sentimental streak for his liking. He placed his glasses on his bedside table, turned off the lights, and settled in for a night of sleep, only pausing once to brush the fiery bangs out of his eyes.


End file.
